A Family Issue
by Byronofsidius
Summary: Rocco Zippeti and Vincent Paglia, long-time henchmen for the Joker, help take the boss away from Arkham after he blows the joint. But on their way back to their new hideout, where Harley waits, the Clown Prince of Crime has a stop to make...
1. Chapter 1

Rocco and Vince sat huddled in the front of their rented SUV, listening to the game on the satellite radio, cheering like a couple of regular hometown goobers as their boys lit up the scoreboard with a pick-6 interception return for a touchdown.

"Frickin' amazing! Dat Jackson kid's a god," Rocco exclaimed. Rocco Zipetti was a jovial fellow, portly but not to the point of morbidity, with a smooth, wide baby face that made people smile to be around him. Cheerful and boisterous, he made fast friends, and possessed a sense of loyalty and duty that rivaled that of any soldier. Dressed as usual in a rumpled old gray suit and bow tie, he brushed crumbs from a muffin off his dingy white button shirt with one chubby hand.

"He's had one hell of a year," Vincent Paglia replied. Vince was to Rocco a polar opposite in physical frame, a tall, angular man with shiny greased back hair, a rounded stud in each ear, and the kind of severe face usually associated with knife fighters and drug dealers in comic books. He had the sallow complexion of a long-time drug addict, which he had once been until a few years earlier. He too wore a plain suit, though his was black. A styrofoam cup of coffee hung just below his mouth in one long-fingered hand. "Kid's got what, nine interceptions on the year now?"

"Somethin' like that," Rocco said. He quickly checked his wristwatch, sat up. "Time's comin'." He started the vehicle's engine, looking out of the driver's side window at the forboding structure in the middle distance, looming like a black cathedral dedicated to shadow worship. There was a sudden blast, the night sky lit with roaring flames and burning debris. "Well shit," Rocco grumbled. "I thought Jimmy said the explosives were low-yield."

"Jimmy's a moron," Vince said quietly. "Probably a crispy one now. Hey," he said, peering into the back seat. "Boss's suit in that box?"

"Yeah," Rocco said. On the radio, Metropolis University had just completed a twenty-eight yard pass, gashing Gotham U's secondary. "Jesus, this's been a good one. Radio tuned to the game in the boss's car?"

"I don't know," Vince replied. "And I didn't wanna try putzin' around wit' all those dials and buttons. Knowing my luck, I'd hit an eject button and hit the roof."

"Fair enough," Rocco said, watching the nearby woods for signs of their boss. He rooted around in his suit coat for a minute, pulling out his cell phone. "Worse comes to worse, I'll pull it up on my radio app." He tucked the phone away again, then clapped his hands and pointed to the woods. "There he is!"

Running at a swift clip toward them was a pale man with ratty green hair and bleached skin, his teeth prominently displayed in a nearly permanent smile. He looked like a clown, but for the orange inmate pants and tattered straight jacket, the last buckles of which he was currently shrugging out of. By the time the Joker got to the SUV, he was able to toss the jacket aside and haul himself inside.

Rocco didn't bother with pleasantries right away; as someone who'd been working with Mr. J for a little over a decade on and off, he'd become familiar with the laughing lunatic's rhythm. Without looking back, he just said, "Suit's in the box, Mr. J."

"Ah, well-prepared, I see," the madman replied, opening the box and shimmying out of his Arkam-issued orange pants and pullover. Rocco took a glimpse in the rearview mirror, wincing as always at the myriad scars covering the Joker's bleach-white skin like a latticework. One of the new ones, still bright pink and puffy, stood out just over his left hip. "You know what they say, Rocco, the clothes make the man." Joker pulled on his purple trousers, his pale yellow button shirt and purple jacket. His green string tie came next, though Rocco could see his hands were trembling.

"Vince, get the boss's tie," Rocco said, carefully navigating them out onto a main thoroughfare minutes from the asylum. The scrawny hoodlum turned around and crawled over the seat into te back, the Joker grumbling to himself unintelligibly as Vince did up his tie. When he was finished, he went to lean back, but Joker slapped him upside the back of his head.

"Get back up front you ninny," the Joker snapped. "I want to stretch out! Now, doggy, there's a good boy, hehehehehehaaa!" Vince clambered back up front as Rocco drew to a stop at a red light. "What are we listening to," Joker asked casually.

"College ball, boss," Rocco said. "Gotham U versus Metropolis. We're up 28 to 17 right now."

"Hmm. No scanner?"

"It's a rental dump. Harley didn't want to waste what little money we've got for this breakout."

"Since when does she worry about the budget," Joker asked, stretching out in the back seat.

"Since we let Bobby go," Vince replied. "Hey, turn two blocks down, I'm friggin' starving. You want anything from Wendy's, boss?"

"Hold that thought, Vincent. Why did you let Bobby go? He was brilliant with the books," Joker said, taking a bottle of water from the bag of goodies Rocco had stashed in the back. He drank deep and sighed.

"Well, Harley let him go," Rocco said, his voice hesitant, nervous. "There was an incident."

"What kind of incident," Joker asked. Rocco told him the details, at which point the smiling lunatic, now scowling, sat up in the back like a ramrod.

"Skip the food," he barked. "Take me to his apartment."

Bobby Henshaw lounged in his La-Z-Boy leather recliner with the game on, watching the Gotham U boys rip Metropolis's defensive line apart, their back goring them for 8 and 9 yard carries down after down. It was a good game. His hairy back was starting to cling to the seat, so he adjusted just before the knock came at his door.

"This'd better be good," said the muscular thug, swigging down the last of his beer. The apartment wasn't much, but he enjoyed having the spare scratch to not have to work. Pulling jobs for the Joker had been lucrative, and after getting canned, he'd found more work as hired muscle for the Riddler. Nigma ran quiet jobs mostly now, profitable without drawing down the Bat. Bobby liked that.

He walked toward the door as another knock rang out. "Keep your shirt on, jeez!" He hauled open the door, immediately regretting not looking through the peephole or grabbing his gun. Rocco Zippeti and Vincent Paglia stood there, flanking the Clown Prince of Crime. "Uh, Mr. J," he choked. The Joker wasn't smiling; he was, in fact, possessed of the kind of thunderous scowl he usually showed when he was furious enough to approach something akin to sanity. With a shout the Joker launched one finely polished wingtip shoe up into Bobby's crotch, dropping him like a sack of grain.

"Pick him up," Joker said, stepping over Bobby and sauntering into the apartment. Bobby groaned, trying to cup his aching balls as the two thugs dragged him back inside and kicked the door shut. They deposited him on the floor by his coffee table, looming over him as they waited for Joker to come back into the squalid little living room.

"Yeesh, you bring women back here on dates, Bobby," Vince asked with a sour grin. "Place screams 'bachelor for life'."

"Nah, dat's just the fungus on that pile of plates begging for release," Rocco quipped, pointing to a mess of old dishes on one end of the coffee table. They could hear Joker snickering in the direction of the kitchen, and when he came back to them with a meat cleaver in hand, walking with a carefree spring in his step, he pointed the square end at Rocco.

"That's pretty good, Rocco, pretty good, heh heh! You see? You're finally learning about comedy! Now," Joker said, adjusting his collar with his free hand. "Get his arm on there and hold him." Bobby yelped and struggled, considerably more built for combat than these two, but lacking the kind of devotion to training that he could have used to get free. Rocco pistol-whipped him to get him still, staring desperately up at Joker.

"Please, Mr. J, what's this about? I didn't do nothin', I never skimmed!"

"That's not what this is about," Joker rasped softly, eyes narrowing, "and you know it." He took from one of his coat pockets a pair of black plastic zip ties, setting them carefully on the floor next to Rocco before stepping back to where Bobby could look up at him. The Joker then snatched Bobby's cell phone from the arm of his recliner and dialed 911, without hitting 'Send'. "Bobby, I know you've been a very naughty boy."

"Please," Bobby stammered, trying to pull away from the toughs.

"I know you tried talking Harley into doing dirty, dirty things with you. I know when she told you to get lost, you tried convincing her with some pinching and grabbing, until she kicked the crap out of you."

"Mr. Joker, please, I was just foolin' around, honest," Bobby said.

"Ties on his wrists," Joker snarled, and Rocco and Vince sprang into action, using the zip ties to crank down on Bobby's wrists, then holding his arms out on the coffee table.

"Dear God, no!"

"This will teach you to keep your hands to yourself," the Joker shouted, laughing maniacally as he hefted the cleaver high and brought it crashing down on Bobby's hands, just below the zip ties. The squelch of blood and snap of ones was deafening, as were Bobby's howls of horror, but Rocco and Vince held steady as Joker hacked twice more to cut the hands free. He dropped the cleaver and hit 'Send' on the phone. "If you live, you'll not soon forget this lesson," he quipped playfully, laughing as he led his thugs out of the apartment.


	2. Chapter 2

Detective Sean Marker surveyed the collection of Henshaw's hands into a cooler for possible reattachment, knowing full well that such would be impossible. The lifetime criminal was lucky to have not bled out, but the stumps of his arms had been hacked out of true, the weapon, a meat cleaver, now being bagged.

"I'll be right back in," he told the crime scene techs. He nipped out into the hallway, lit a cigarette, and exhaled a plume to his left, directly into the face of the man he'd known would be there. "You're either slipping, or you don't give much of a tin shit about subtlety anymore," he said.

"Henshaw used to work for the Joker," the Batman rasped. "You knew I'd have to come see this for myself."

"Well, laughing man did just blow the coop a couple hours ago," said Marker, tapping ashes on the hallway floor. His stocky frame belied the gentleness of his smooth voice, a tone which had always made people stop and listen. "Figure it's natural he'd come gather his boys. You think maybe Henshaw turned him down?"

"No," Batman said, eyes narrowing. He swooped around Marker into the apartment, looking at the scene. "This was something else altogether. What, I don't know yet. I'll have to talk to Henshaw."

"You'll get a chance," said Marker, following him inside after stamping out his smoke. "He had a few unregistered weapons and a treasure trove of crank in his bedroom. We'll be holding him at Gotham General after they do what they can for him." Marker shook his head and looked down at the bloody coffee table. "Makes you wonder about some folks, don't it?" But when he looked for the vigilante for a response, no one was there. He sighed. "Typical."

In his years fighting against the Joker, Batman had come to appeciate the sophistication of some of his tropes and behaviors. There was usually a strange, bent kind of logic to Joker's movements and activities, but every now and again, an incident like this put him right back to where he always wound up, baffled and slowly building to anger. The only other member of his rogues' gallery who made him nearly so confused was Crane, and then usually because of his various toxins.

But at least the Scarecrow was methodical, pattern-driven. This brutality seemed utterly random. Though serving as financial bookkeeper for Joker's outfit, Henshaw had never been accused of bilking or skimming, and when he worked for the clown, he never betrayed his allegiance. Bobby Henshaw was a pro. There shouldn't be any reason for this to have happened to him.

Crouched on the edge of a rooftop in Gotham's lower east side, the vigilante hooked a rapelling line into the brick and swung down through a small ventilation access into the Laugh Factory. It was an old combination joke shop and comedy club, and had served as the Joker's hideout several times over the years. There had been men moving around out front and inside, and he assumed it was once more the base for the Clown Prince of Crime.

Navigating through the old ductwork, Batman worked his way to the managerial office grate, looking down at a desk cluttered with all manner of gag props and papers. A portly black man in a thick blue cable knit sweater sat behind it, puffing on a cigar. There was a knock at the office door, and the man looked up. "Come on in," he said.

A mousy man in glasses and white button shirt over faded khakis came in. "Hey Tim," he said, smiling. "Just wanted to let you know the guys are here to clear out all the old inventory."

"Good," said Tim, the manager. He looked around and visibly shivered. "I know we got a deal on this place, but damned if it don't feel haunted. Like someone's watching me."

"Well, you know that lunatic, the Joker, used to use this place as a hideout."

"I know," said Tim. "That's why the price was so low." Batman didn't need to hear any more; someone was going to now run a legitimate business out of the place, so he had no need to be there. He made his way back up to the roof, grumbling. He peered out over the city, eyes narrowed.

"Where are you," he whispered.

Rocco parked the SUV and killed the engine, telling Vince to grab the food while he went to the rear door and opened it for Joker. The madman stepped out, sipping his soda, and looked around. "Never thought it'd come to this," he said. "Suburbia, yeech."

"Miss Harley thought it'd be a smart move this time around," Rocco said, leading the way along a narrow gravel walkway to the front porch in the dark. "It's actually kinda nice, if you can stomach the whole cookie cutter look of the neighborhood." He pulled a set of keys out of his pocket and handed them back to his boss. "You should go through first, sir. She's been itching to see you again."

"Thank you, Rocco," said Joker, handing the pudgy thug his empty cup in exchange. He unlocked the front door and stepped into an entryway that looked positively domesticated. He cringed. As he wiped off his feet on a rough green rug, he heard movement down the hallway, accompanied by the jangle of bells. He felt himself smiling again, a softer one than he normally wore.

Dressed in her black and red court jester's costume, face painted white with a domino eye mask over her eyes, Harley Quinn shuffled out of an archway on the right side of the hall, eyes wide, bright smile lighting her features. "Puddin'?"

"Honey, I'm hooooome," he called out, arms held out for her. She squeaked excitedly and ran down the hall, leaping into his arms as if this were a carefully choreographed routine. He caught her without any effort, letting her nuzzle against his neck, giving her a squeeze with his hands.

"Oh, Mistah J, it's so good to have you back," she said, peppering his neck and cheek with little kisses. He gingerly set her on her feet, and she took his hand, guiding him down the hallway. "And good timing, too! I just finished a fresh batch of cookies!" Joker looked back over his shoulder at Rocco and Vince, who each gave him a hand wiggle to imply the goodies were okay, if not spectacular. The thugs sighed as Harley led the boss around a corner into the kitchen, kicking off their shoes and heading for the living room. Harley leaned out into the hall, the tassles of her jester's cap dangling down. "You boys put your shoes up right," she asked innocently. Rocco quickly stooped down to straighten them up, heels against the wall atop a brown mat. "Very good."

The two men eased into the quaint little living room, tuning into the 11 o'clock news, almost over now. Rocco settled into one of two armchairs, Vince stretched out on the couch. Rocco loosened his belt and sipped the last of his soda from his take-out cup.

"So, how long you figure until the boss draws down the heat on this joint," Vincent asked quietly. Rocco let out a little burp and undid the top button of his shirt. "Can't figure it'll be too long. He can't sit around here and play house wit' her forever." Rocco was a man who, upon initial and even second glance, would never strike anyone as swift, athletic, or even all that tough. But he sprang up from his seat and cuffed Vince across the face with a resounding slap that rocked the other man all the way down to his toes. Vince put his hand to hi cheek, mouth agape, arms and legs crunched up defensively as Rocco barred his teeth at him.

"You don't talk about the boss and Miss Harley like dat," he snarled. "You wanna disrespect someone around here, give somebody shit, you do it to me, understand? They took us in, give us work, let us stay with them without charging us a dime out of our cut, ever. Open your mouth like that again," he hissed, sauntering back over to his chair, "and I'll ask them to can your ass."

Vince muttered something darkly under his breath, but the two men remained in silence, watching as the late night movie came on. Joker and Harley came through a few minutes in, she leading him by the hand towards the stairway leading up to the second floor.

"You boys behave yourselves and don't stay up too late," Harley said amiably. Joker let go of her hand and she gave him a curious look.

"Just need a word with these two, sweetie, up in a minute," he assured her. She gave him a wink and bounced upstairs, the madman watching her bottom and hips roll pleasantly along side to side. "Mmm-hmm. Boys, do us a favor and don't come upstairs for a while. It might be a smidge noisy for a bit." Rocco grinned lasciviously up t his boss.

"Gonna play charades, right boss? Heh heh." Joker chuckled with him and dashed up the stairs, out of sight. Vince looked over, said nothing, and got up. "Where you going?"

"I'm calling dibs on the bedroom down here," Vince said, leaving Rocco alone in the living room. The heavier-set thug nipped upstairs for a minute, changing into sweatpants and a tee shirt for the night while trying to ignore the moans coming from the next room over. He quickly headed back dowstairs and stretched out on the couch, falling asleep ten minutes later while the late night movie played.


	3. Chapter 3

He didn't care much for doing his investigative work while presenting his Bruce Wayne persona, but at least the Batman had a plausible method of doing so. He watched as James 'Jim' Gordon, Police Commissioner of Gotham City's Police Department, lined up his shot, taking his club back and forth through the motions.

"I know what you're thinking," Gordon said, still eyeballing his lane. "'Just take the shot, old man'. Well, I will, in just a minute. Don't crowd me." His bushy gray eyebrows and mustache wiggled as he made one final adjustment and swung. The litte white ball sailed off down over the grasses and a few trees, coming down just out of sight. He lifted the club half-shaft up and gripped it, pumping his other fist as his caddie, three-hundred yards away, hand-signaled that he was on the green.

"Nicely done," said the Batman in his Bruce Wayne voice.

"You know, I'll never get used to that," Gordon said, stepping back so Wayne could take his shot.

"What's that?"

"Your voice. This is usually the kind of conversation we'd be having with your, ah, other one."

"Would that make you more comfortable," Batman asked in his vigilante tone. Gordon chuckled at thejuxtaposition before him.

"You know, it does, somehow." Batman swung, and his caddie signaled a landing on the green. "I figured there had to be a situation this side of you needed to talk to me about, or you wouldn't be interrupting my vacation."

The two men started slowly walking toward the green. "What do you know about last night's events?"

"The Joker's escape? Or that goon Henshaw being hacked up and sent to Gotham General?"

"Column A and B I suppose."

"I got an email about the breakout this morning, said they found the poor soul who blew the wall out. He must've badly miscalculated his designs. As for Henshaw, I just know he got his hands cut off afterward. I figure it's a revenge thing for hiring himself out to Nigma."

"Hmm. I didn't know about that."

"We're keeping it quiet for now, but that sneaky son of a bitch has been pulling tiny jobs and two-bit cons all over the city and the suburbs, trying to lay low to keep off of your radar," Gordon said. "We've kept it all off the official wire so you wouldn't get involved."

"Why?"

"Because, Bruce, we'd like the chance now and again to catch these cretins without you. Helps morale and image." Batman nodded, understanding perfectly the politics of Gordon's decision. They were about two hundred yards off the green now. "Anything else?"

"I've been trying to track down Harley Quinn, but there's been no activity on any of the aliases she uses. If I can find where she's been or is currently at, I'll find him."

"Unfortunately, you're better equipped to handle that than us," Gordon said, stopping to light a cigarrello. "Last we saw or heard anything from her was just after you nabbed the Joker four months back, booking herself a flight to Saint Louis. Her trail went cold there."

The Batman made a mental note of that and carried on. "We can shelf the shop talk for now, Jim. Thanks for the information. And I promise, if you can grab Nigma soon, I'll stay out of it." Gordon smiled as he twirled his club.

"What do you think I'm doing my first day back from this vacation?"

For Rocco Zippeti, the smell of food wasn't necessary to be roused from sleep. The mere sound of cooking could stir him, as it did the morning after the boss got broke out of Arkham. It was the crackle-sizzle of bacon, a sound he associated immediately with his grandmother, a woman for whom cooking was life. Her kitchen was always in use, her domain, never to be trifled with. He'd always loved Nana, as he called her, but whenever he intruded unwelcome into her green-tiled terrain, he feared for dear life.

So it was with memories of being hollered at in Italian and having to duck miscellaneous kitchenware being tossed at his head that Rocco ambled into the kitchen, scratching his belly. Harley stood at the stove, her shoulder-length blonde hair tied up in a tail, barely covered by one of Joker's yellow button shirts. She was humming, bopping over to the fridge as bacon began wafting its scent about the room, her pert bottom and frilly white underwear exposed briefly.

"Whoa, Miss Harley," Rocco said, shielding his eyes with his hands. "Pants might be the order of the day." She wheeled about, package of shredded cheese held in her teeth, eggs in hand.

"Oh, forry bou' vat, occo," she managed, striding to the counter beside the stove and setting her food down. She clasped her hands behind her back and leaned forward, bobbing side to side with a smile girlishly. "I forgot you guys were here."

"S'not a problem. Whyn't you go get some pants and a shirt that fits, I'll handle breakfast? You been taking care of us for the last week; you deserve a rest." Harley nodded, skipping past and stopping to plant a peck on his cheek.

"Thanks, Rocco. You're a peach!" He waved her off and got settled in, working the culinary skills his Nana had taught him growing up. This, I can do, he thought. When he had gotten halfway through cooking, the Joker appeared a few feet away at the coffeemaker, mug in hand, wearing a plain white tee and polka dot boxers over his bleach white frame.

"Geez, Rock, it's been years since you cooked for the bunch of us," the madman noted, pouring in a vulgar amount of sugar to his coffee. "What gives?"

"Just figured it'd be nice to do it again," the hefty man replied. He looked his boss in the eyes for a moment, then slid his vision to Joker's forehead; he'd never been able to match his boss's gaze for more than few seconds without feeling reality tilt sideways. "What's on the agenda, boss?"

"For a few days, nothing," Joker said, grunting as Harley swept in and pressed against his side until he draped his free arm around her. "Harley and I are going to enjoy a Marx Brothers marathon today, so if you want the living room, too bad. Vince?"

The other thug sat at the kitchen table, newspaper in hand. "I gotta go round up the other guys and get the other house situated, per Miss Harley's instructions."

"Not a biggie, puddin'," she said. "I just wanted to get the ball rolling for whenever you're ready to get something cooking." The Joker gave her a squeeze.

"Thank you, dear. Now, when our food's ready, Rocco, we'll be in the living room. Away with us," he shouted, setting the mug down and scooping Harley up, carrying her off with her fists held out as if she were flying, the pair giggling like kids. Rocco caught the poisonous look Vince gave them, but said nothing, turning his attention to cooking.

An hour later, with Vince gone and the boss and Harley watching movies, Rocco headed up to the second bedroom upstairs and hopped online, checking his email. Most of it was spam, so he headed to Facebook to putter around. A knock came at the door shortly, and he turned to the Joker, who had a fresh mug of coffee in hand.

"Have to borrow your phone, Rocco. I want to tell Edward about what happened." Rocco handed over his cell and turned his eyes back to the laptop screen. He listened to the boss's side of the conversation, though. "Hello, Eddie! It's your old pal, the funny man!" Pause. "Just to tell you I'm sorry about putting you a man down last night." Pause. "I had my reasons." A longer pause. "No, no, he wasn't stealing from me. He was innappropriate with Harley." Pause. "Certainly, if you want." Pause. "Well, we'd have to wait for Harvey, he really knows how to put one together." Pause. "All righty, then! Thursday night. Yes, see you then." He hung up, set the phone down by Rocco's arm. "Got any plans Thursday night, Rock?"


	4. Chapter 4

Samuel Werth turned the sign on his store's front to 'Closed', locked the door, and headed back around behind the counter. Running the pawn shop had always been a good front, and to his pleasant surprise, he was in the black for his third month in a row. In a down economy, people turned to such places, and he was benefiting nicely. His primary means of income was doing steady business as well, in the rear storeroom.

As Werth tallied up his day's receipts, he looked around at all of the Rams merchandise he'd gotten that morning. He easily had three-thousand dollars' worth of gear here, and he'd paid the poor shmuck eight-hundred for it all. He dropped his cash into the floor safe and headed into the back, stopping dead in his tracks in the doorway. Werth always left the lights on in here, but his storeroom was entirely dark.

Sensing another presence, he let the door shut behind him, throwing the room into total darkness. When in doubt, put everybody at the same disadvantage, he thought. Reaching down to his right, he grabbed the crowbar he always kept on hand in case one of his back room customers got hostile, easing his way blindly forward. From his left pocket he pulled out a Minimag flashlight, keeping it off as he tried to listen for his intruder, if there indeed was one.

Ahead and to his right, he heard something rustling. Werth clicked on his light and swung, and his wrist was caught by a black-clad horror in a horned mask. "Samuel Werth," intoned the demon. It twisted his wrist, and Werth went down with a yelp, dropping his weapon. Suddenly the lights were on, and the Batman was sitting on his chest. "I believe you know who I am."

"Y-yeah," the shopkeeper stammered, sweat running down his neck. "But what're you doing in St. Louis?"

"I'm here for you. You're well known as a man who can procure false documentation, new identities for paying customers. I want to know if you made one recently for Harley Quinn."

"Who?" Batman reached into his cloak and produced two photos, one of Harley in her costume, and one in street clothes. Werth shook his head. "Nah, I never seen her come in here."

"Are you sure," Batman growled, pressing the photos closer to the man's eyes.

"Hey, trust me, I'd remember being around a cute little piece like that," said Werth, wheezing as the vigilante got up off of him. He rolled over and stood up, brushing himself off. "I got competitors around the city, though, they might've done work for her. That's the Joker's girl, isn't it?" Batman nodded. "Yeah, figures. You know what they say, the pretty ones are all taken or gay." The caped crusader squinted at him and started away for the back door, about to leave when Werth called out, "Hey! Where's my equipment?"

"I'll be taking it with me. Unless, of course, you'd prefer I leave an anonymous tip for the SLPD?" Silence. "Thought not." And like that he was gone, stepping onto the hydraulic lift up into the Batplane, hovering overhead on autopilot. He banked left and took off east, back toward Gotham. As soon as he was beyond the city limits, however, he decided to land in a small clearing in a wooded area in the countryside, feeding the recorded audio from his conversation with Samuel Werth into the plane's onboard computer.

Setting his analysis program to screen for every factor, he ran the audio. Five minutes later, the program told him that Werth had given him a conditional lie, or half-truth. Batman flew back and dropped down into the aley behind the pawn shop once more, his timing perfect; Werth was outside, smoking a cigarette. When the criminal saw him land, he went still like a deer in headlights.

Batman approached, grinning. "You're pretty clever, for a two-bit con man," he rasped, stopping within arm's reach. "Someone provided you a picture, didn't they, had you forge papers secondhand."

"Um, yeah, but that wasn't what you asked before," Werth said, trying to smile and failing. "Guy didn't give me his name, just cash up front and a request."

"What name did you give her, Werth?"

"Whitcomb. Bonnie Whitcomb."

Tuesday afternoon saw the Batman asleep on a cot he kept in the cave, rousing as his computer chirped at him the results of his search. He grumbled, walking over to the console and sitting down as Alfred rolled a cart with coffee and finger foods over to him.

"It is most unusual for you to be so clad before the sun goes down, sir. Did you forget the wonderful things in life? Like a shower?" Batman, sans mask, gave is butler a wry grin.

"Trying to tell me something, Alfred?"

"Nothing that the wavy lines of odor coming off you couldn't relay, sir." He poured Batman a cup of coffee, lacing it with sugar and cream before handing it over. He looked up at the screen. "Unfortunate she chose a name like that," he said. The computer had spit out seven Bonnie Whitcombs, and eight close matches, all within the four-state radius he'd set. "I suppose it could have been worse, Jane Smith or something like that."

"No, this was perfect," Batman replied. "The obvious choice would have been too easy to whittle down. A moderate feedback like this, I'll have to waste time checking against driver's license photos, and anything even remotely close will have to be followed up. Do you remember what happened the last time Ivy got out?"

"Oh, yes, simply dreadful," Alfred said. "Using that synthflesh, taking over that poor professor's life. Whatever happened to her?"

"She wound up in Saint Bartholomew's," Batman said. "She still can't get over what happened to her because of Ivy. She lost too much." He looked down at the floor a moment, lost in thoughts about the thousands of victims his Rogues' Gallery had harmed. Had he been willing to cross that line, to finish them off once and for all, how many could he have saved? No, best not to follow that thinking. That way madness lies, he thought.

Batman brought up his DMV photo crosscheck program and ran it against his best shots of Harley. Only five Bonnie Whitcombs came within parameters. With the advent of synthflesh now on the market, any of the five results could be Harley in disguise. While the cosmetic substance could only make slight alterations, they were enough to throw off even the most sophisticated facial recognition programs. He would have to surveille each of these women, a task made more cumbersome by the fact that only two of them lived in Gotham. One lived in Philadelphia, one in Albany, and one in Syracuse. He would be busy for a few days.

"Clear my schedule for the time being, Alfred," Batman said, leaning back in his chair, sipping his coffee. "I'm going to be out of town."

Wednesday morning saw Harley and Joker in civilian clothes, their faces altered with synthflesh compound to make them look close to normal so they could enjoy a shopping spree. Joker had accessed his hidden bank accounts, and finances were now much better. On their way out, Joker called back inside, "Play nice, boys! Hehehehehehaa!"

Rocco and Vince had been arguing for the better part of two days now, carefully keeping the specifics between themselves. The Riddler had put out an open call for hired hands, and Vince wanted to take half the crew and sign on with him. Rocco wanted to belt him in the gob for disloyalty. "The only time we work for someone other than Mr. J or Harley is when they're both locked up," he argued when Vince brought the offer to his attention. "Where's your sense of duty?"

Vince had heaped on Rocco then a slew of insults, chief of which was calling him a moron for wanting to hang on to working with Joker and Harley. "They're reckless psychos who wouldn't give a rat's ass if your head caught fire," he hollered at one point.

Now the pair was glaring at one another across the living room. Vince broke the silence when they heard the rented SUV pulling away. "You're a dolt," he snarled. "And what's more, I can't believe what a darling little sycophant you've become! I used to respect you, Zippeti," the scrawny hood said, kicking up out of his chair. "Now you're just a joke, another lapdog like Kramer!"

"I ain't no Kramer," Rocco spat, heaving himself up, standing nose to nose with Vince. "He tried to backstab Dr. Crane in the end! If anybody's like him, it's you," he snarled, jabbing one beefy finger in Vince's chest. Vince shoved the heavier man back with a grunt.

"What's your angle, Rock? Huh? You think those two care what happens to us? We're hired hands, genius! Ain't nothin' done for us we can't do our damn selves!"

"Who got you outta Blackgate, Vince," Rocco asked, lowering his voice, trying to calm down and reason with his cohort. "Whose money paid for that lawyer? I'll tell you who, Harley. And she only did it because she knew Mr. J would want people he knew."

"I'm not listening to his garbage," Vince snarled. He grabbed his coat off of the couch. "I'm going across the street to get my guys. We're done, Rocco. I'm out." The scrawny thug brushed by him and out the front door, slamming it shut on his way. Rocco shook his head and went down the hall to the kitchen. One less place to set at the table, and as oft times before, he found himself saddened by the loss of a friend.


	5. Chapter 5

Batman slipped out of the apartment mere minutes before his second query came home, scaling the outer wall of the building until he was on the roof. He grumbled at how much time all of this footwork was taking, but he knew there was no other way. He had to be thorough, particularly since the Joker had apparently gone to ground, making no waves whatsoever. The Clown Prince of Crime had shown remarkable restraint in the past a few times, laying low for months at a crack. But this time felt different somehow.

His next query was in Philadelphia, only an hour away by Batplane. Batman climbed into the cockpit and took flight, hoping he wouldn't come across more dead ends, but fully expecting he would. Once he was outside of the City of Brotherly Love, he found himself briefly wanting to utilize one of his own fake identities, to disappear into the home of the Eagles and simply cease to be. Such fantasies would never be indulged, however. He had a duty to do.

Syncing the navigation computer with his autopilot, Batman programmed in the address he wanted and sat back, letting his thoughts freely roam. The meditative state of mind he had trained for so many years to hone came easily now, and he found that it afforded him something no computer system, no matter how advanced, could achieve; it granted him access to instinctual connections and hunches. Oft times, a 'gut feeling' proved true when reached in such a state of thought.

Closing his eyes, he saw before himself a glowing green flow chart, of the sort used to identify cells within a criminal organization. Atop the chart he placed the Joker. Right under him, in her own box, Harley Quinn. From her branched four lines, and these names shimmered weakly. In order from left to right, they were Rocco Zippeti, Phillup McAllister, Francine Lubbock, and Vincent Paglia. These were the toughs who had worked under the Joker the longest and most frequently.

McAllister he was able to mentally rub out, because the Irishman was presently at Blackgate, serving a six year stint for a drunken hit-and-run that had left a Gotham U student hospital-bound for eight months. The other three, however, were out on the streets somewhere. Paglia, more of a mercenary than Zippeti, might well be working for someone else in the Batman's Rogues' Gallery until contacted.

All of which brought Rocco into focus. There was something there, but what he couldn't say. The alarm to tell him he'd arrived at his destination chimed, and the vigilante came slowly up out of his trance, feeling sharper of wit and rested.

He dropped down onto yet another relatively featureless rooftop, using a control in his belt to activate the cloak on his vessel. He landed silently, creeping to the rooftop access door, where he placed a pulse magnet to pull the security bar on the inside. Once in the building, he immediately recognized the sour tang that permeated all such tenements, a putrid mix of smoke, sweat, blood and fear. This was a dark place, well suited to the purposes of the less-than-legitimate.

Descending unseen to the fourth floor, the Batman came out into the fourth floor hallway only a foot or two away from a heavily built black man in a muscle shirt, leaning on a shotgun as a walking stick. Before this worthy could so much as flick away the joint he was smoking to take aim, the caped crusader had him disarmed and grunting with his face on the floor, arm bent up at a horrible angle.

"I have some questions," he said quietly. "Lie to me, and you go to the hospital. Tell me the truth, and you may walk away from here tonight a new man."

Rocco didn't bother explaining to Mr. J and Harley why Vince and half their crew were gone from the house across the street. They had their ways of learning these things, and thankfully, they didn't ask. The pair sat together at the kitchen table, both in luxuriously thick red bathrobes, sipping coffee and waiting for Rocco to serve them up breakfast. He was just setting their plates down when his cell phone starting chirping at him. "Sorry, boss. I'll take it in the other room," he said, moving off to the living room and hitting 'Send' to accept the call. "Go for Rocco," he said quietly.

At first there were no words, but a soft, almost distant sobbing and sniffling. The life-long criminal's heart dropped into his stomach; he knew who was calling, and the last time he'd heard her crying like this, their father had died. Finally, in a thick, warbling voice, "Rocco, help me."

"Andrea? Hey, what's wrong? What happened?" He heard her sob for a moment, sniff hard, then spit. "Andrea?"

"It's Tom," she rasped. "God help me, Rocco, I can barely move." Rocco's hand tightened on the phone so hard he heard the casing begin to give under the pressure. He loosened his grip, using the other hand to rip his apron off.

"Sit tight, Andrea, I'm comin' over," he said, hanging up and pocketing the phone. He stomped back out into the kitchen, roughly tossing the apron in the general direction of the pantry. Joker raised an eyebrow curiously at him, popping the last of his bacon into his mouth.

"Something eating you, Rocco? Given your waistline, it'd have to be something big, heh heh!"

"Puddin', I think this is serious," Harley said, flicking a wadded napkin off of his long nose. She gave Rocco a concerned look. "What's wrong, sweetie?" He quickly told them, Harley's expression darkening quickly as he related the call. She pushed back from the table forcefully, got up. "Come on, Mistah J," she said.

"Now wait a minute, Harley," Joker replied, one hand held up. "Maybe Rocco wants to handle this himself."

"I just need the truck for a," Rocco began, but Harley slapped her hand down hard on the table.

"No! We're going with you! And do you know why," she asked, leaning across the table, nose-to-nose with her beau. "Because that man," she said, pointing at the flabbergasted thug, "has had your back for twelve years. He treats us real good, never complains, never takes anything that isn't his to have, and goes along with whatever craziness we ask of him without question. So get dressed, puddin," she snapped, stalking out of the kitchen.

The Joker whistled long and low, then chuckled, rising from his seat. "Well, Rock," he said amiably, putting one white hand on Rocco's shoulder. "Looks like you'll have company! Hehehehehaa!"

Batman had learned next to nothing from the crack den guard in Philadelphia, but what little he'd gleaned had given him, in the end, the jump-off point he needed. He'd seen the woman for a few days, but shortly after arriving, she'd been seen leaving with her few belongings with a man she called Vinny. She'd left no forwarding address.

Paglia, however, hadn't been as careful with his own aliases. He'd registered a PO box under one of them in a suburb west of Gotham City, and the vigilante had been able to trace the PO box to an IP address where Vince had placed an eBay order. He'd been smart enough to use a public library computer to do his business, but not quite wise enough to avoid going back.

Batman had utilized one of his carry-along disguises to hide in plain sight across from the library, using his meditative trance state to rest before the sun rose. He hadn't gotten proper sleep yet, and was operating in broad daylight, a break from his usual routine as the Dark Knight. Yet he could not let this one go, not when the Joker was involved.

The library opened at eight, and Batman, dressed as a shabby drifter, complete with hiking-style rucksack, wandered into the building and set himself up with some periodicals at a table near the computers. Half an hour later, Paglia came wandering in, heading straight for them. The vigilante used a pair of magnification shades to peek at his activity; he was checking the tracking progress on the vintage porn videos he'd ordered. Satisfied that they were on their way, the hired hand signed out and made his way out of the building, unaware that he was being followed.

Andrea and Thomas Roth lived in a squat ranch-style house, a falling-down structure that looked like a strong enough storm could knock it flat. Rocco threw the SUV in park and hopped out. Joker had wanted to take the Clown Car, but Harley had pointed out that it would stand out too much, draw the unwanted attention of the authorities.

The pudgy thug didn't even waste time knocking, instead kicking the door open and calling out, "Andrea! Where are you?" The Joker, walking up to the front door, stopped and grimaced at a sign standing against the house.

"That's unpleasant," he commented. The sign showed the barrel end of a revolver, and above it were the words, 'Trespassers will be shot.' Below it read, 'Survivors will be shot again'.

"Makes sense, though," Harley said. "Tom's a cop."

"What? Rocco's brother-in-law is a cop?"

"Yeah, he's told us that before. Don't you listen when the boys are talking to us," she asked, planting her hands on her hips, bells on her hat jangling.

"To tell you the truth, only about half the time. Otherwise I'm thinking up new material for my routine."

"Get in there," she grumbled, pushing him ahead of her as he leaned backward with his hands stuffed in his pockets. Rocco was moving back through the house, down a hallway toward the main bedroom. He found Andrea there, laid out on the bed, curled up in a fetal ball. The room was wrecked, the victim of a malevolent maelstrom of violence. His sister's face was puffy and red, her nose broken sideways, lower lip split. Her forearms were covered in angry purple bruises, and the big man gently lowered himself beside the bed, taking one of her hands in his huge mitts.

"Andrea," he whispered. Her left eye fluttered open, the right unable to from swelling. "Where is he? Where's Tom?"

"His, his shift started a few minutes ago," she said weakly. Joker and Harley stood back in the doorway, out of sight. "Who's with you, Rock?"

"Friends," Rocco said, not wanting to alarm her. He looked over at his employers. "There should be some painkillers in the medicine cabinet in the bathroom." Joker nodded and backed away, returning with a bottle and tossing it from the doorway. Rocco fumbled it, putting two pills in her hand and grabbing a nearby bottle of Coke. She took a sip, swallowed the pills. "Now, Andrea, you remember who I work for, right?" She nodded as best she could. "Okay, they're over at the door. Miss Harley? Can you help clean her up? I think Mr. J and I can go to the living room, give you girls some privacy."

"Sure thing, sweetie," Harley said, cartwheeling over to the bedside. Rocco walked with Joker out to the living room, the madman's hand on his tightened shoulder.

"Easy, Rock, I know it's bad," Joker confided as he led Rocco to the plaid couch in the darkened living room. "Harley says your brother-in-law's a cop, right?"

"Yeah," Rocco said, fists clenched on his thighs, staring at the floor.

"He's done this before?"

"Never like this. I tried threatening him once, but he laughed me off, said he'd have me locked up in a second if I didn't butt outta his business. But I don't care, this can't stand," he shouted, punching his own leg. Joker smiled and made a 'calm down' motion with his hands standing in front of him.

"Hey, it won't, trust me. Tom's got a nice long shift still ahead of him. We'll be here to greet him when he gets home." The Joker then went into an explanation of what Tom Roth would come home to, and Rocco Zippeti, usually a man of sanity and restraint, wholeheartedly agreed with it.

Madness would reign.


	6. Chapter 6

When the Dark Knight neared the abandoned factory again, returning now in the early afternoon on the portable Batcycle kept hidden in the guts of the Batplane, his monitoring helmet began picking up interference. He slowed down, tapping the side of his helmet to activate the voice command interface. "Computer, locate interference source." The on-visor heads up display showed him a new route lit in bright yellow, which he followed to an old school building in the process of being torn down.

As he brought the cycle to a halt in the parking lot, he looked around at the half-dozen sedans parked there. Construction equipment sat silent about the property, but he knew there were no men there to do such work. Pickup trucks would have been the predominant mode of transport; these were the unmarked patrol cars of local and Gotham Metro police. He also recognized the aging Lincoln Continental of Commissioner James Gordon nearest the entrance.

Batman slipped inside, moving swiftly towards the side of the building facing the factory. In one of the classrooms, he found fourteen plainclothes detectives gathered around pegboards, dry erase boards and various monitoring stations. One of them saw him in the doorway and croaked, "Uh, Commish? We got company." Gordon stood by the largest window, binoculars in hand, and he turned around to look at the vigilante with a scowl.

"I told you we had this," he snarled, stomping out into the hallway with the Batman, who, for a wonder, looked confused.

"Wait, the Riddler is camped out over there?"

"Yeah. Who did you think it was?"

"The Joker. I followed one of his men, Vincent Paglia, to that factory this morning." Gordon pulled out a mini cigar and lit it, chuffing smoke.

"Paglia, huh? He showed up yesterday with a van full of extra men to hire on with Nigma. You figure he jumped ship?"

"Possibly. The Joker is laying low right now, and Paglia may not want to wait around for a pay day. He might have information about the Joker's whereabouts, though."

"So you want him," Gordon said.

"Just for a few minutes."

"Well, you may as well hunker down. We're waiting for more state units before we storm the place. I'll make sure Paglia goes in the back of my own car when we make our move."

"I appreciate that," Batman said, shuffling off down the hallway. Now came the hardest part of any investigation for the caped crusader- waiting.

It was just after five o'clock in the afternoon when Tom stepped out of his truck, eyeballing the SUV parked across the road. He was a suspicious man by nature, which made him a great beat cop. But he was also a natural born thug and bully, which made him a piss poor husband.

He opened the front door, stepping into his living room, and looked around. He had knocked over the coat rack when storming out earlier, but now all looked set to rights. Imagine that, he thought. The mouthy bitch can clean. He hung his sevice jacket up and put his hat on one of the hooks, unbuttoning his gun belt and storing it in the closet by the door.

"Andrea," he called out, loosening his tie. He pulled it off, sauntering towards the kitchen, where he could smell something cooking. "Where are you, girl?" He made it to the kitchen entryway and spotted her there by the stove, stirring something in a pot. "Hey, I'm talking to you," he spat, hands on his hips. She turned around, exposing her savaged features.

"I'm sorry," she managed through her puffy lips. "Trying to make sure the spices mix in properly." He grunted, moving to his chair at the table. He noticed three extra places set.

"Hey, are we expecting," he began, turning in his chair to look at her. What he found standing right next to him was Harley Quinn, complete in costume, a black pot with steam pouring up out of it in hand. "Company?"

"Not like this," Harley said, dumping the scalding water in Tom's lap. He shrieked in agony, falling off of his chair and thrashing on the floor, scrambling away with just his arms as his legs curled up reflexively against his injury. He got a few feet away when he stopped, a pair of feet in classic stage magician's shoes stepping into view, over which were purple trousers. He flopped on his side and pered up as the leering visage of the Joker bent down over him.

"Howdy do there, Tommy boy," the madman crooned gaily. "Quite the welcoming committee, aren't we, heh heh! Come along, then, let's get you on your feet," he said, reaching down and hauling Tom upright, pushing him back once he was on his feet. Tom stutter-stepped, trying to stay upright while still half-crouching over his wounded crotch. Joker put one long finger up along his cheek, cupping his pointed chin thoughtfully. "Hmm, on second thought, perhaps it's best you sit down," he said.

Harley shoved the chair into the back of Tom's legs and he sat down hard, grunting. She and the Joker swooped in, hauling his arms behind the chair backing, clamping his hands together with his own handcuffs. Joker stepped back, giggling as a third figure came into the kitchen archway, dangling Tom's gun belt in one hand.

"You're a creature of habit, Tom," Rocco rumbled, pulling out the night stick from its loop and the pepper spray from its pouch before dropping the belt. "Andrea told me you always put your belt up in the closet when you get home. If you'd bothered to look behind the couch, you'd have seen me. Course, I'd have just shot out your knee, but you have a routine. Tell me," he said, patting the end of the club in his palm, taking slow steps closer, "is beating the shit out of my sister part of that routine?"

"I, I," was all the officer could manage before Rocco swung the club down into his shin with all the brute force he could muster, which was considerable. The club cracked without breaking, and Tom screamed. As he bucked and hollered, Rocco unleashed the pepperspray on him, which threw him into a wild, agonized frenzy, tipping himself and the chair over, tears and snot running from his face onto the cold tile floor.

But Tom Roth was a bull of a man, and a trained policeman as well. He managed to wiggle off of the chair, trying to get upright with his hands cuffed behind him. Rocco laid a vicious blow across Tom's back, right over his kidney, which dropped him again with a shout. "Aaaaaah, you motherfucker," he howled, rolling onto his back and kicking out blindly at Rocco, missing by nearly a foot. "I'll fucking kill you, you greasy dago cocksucker!"

"Such language," Joker admonished like a schoolmarm, hoisting Tom up with Harley's help. "And in front of not one, but two ladies! Be still my beating heart, heh heh!" Tom turned his head and spat directly in Joker's eye, and the Clown Prince of Crime chortled like a fiend. Rocco used the end of the club to slam into Tom's gut, doubling him over. "Attaboy, Rocky, give 'im hell," Joker called, miming the coach from the classic Stallone film admirably well.

Rocco dropped the club, grabbed Tom by his short brown hair, and drove his knee up into Tom's face, three swift hits, the last of which busted his brother-in-law's nose. He let go, and Tom dropped to the floor, blood pouring from his nose and mouth, where several teeth had been broken off on Rocco's knee.

Something in the living room exploded, glass tinkling as a window was broken in. The three criminals all whipped around toward the source of the noise, seeing through the archway into the living room a broad, dark figure rising from where he'd landed.

"Batman," Joker snarled, scowling. He looked over at Harley. "Like we talked about, dear."

"Right," she said, streaking toward the vigilante and launching a volley of quick kicks at him as Joker pulled Rocco back toward the back door, just off of the kitchen.

"Boss, what're you doing? Miss Harley," he began.

"Shut up, Rocco," Joker said evenly, opening the door and using his surprising strength to whip the heavyset thug out onto the rear patio. Flabbergasted, Zippeti stared at his longtime employer. "Rock, you've always been good to us. You've stalled this bozo dozens of times for us before, had firefights with the police to cover us, and taken care of us domestically way better than anyone we've ever worked with."

"Dat's my job," Rocco said. Joker reached out and put one hand on his shoulder companionably.

"Not today, Rock. Harley's idea, and I think she's got a good head on her shoulders. Now get out of here," he said, pulling the door shut. He dashed back to the living room, where the Batman had Harley in a half-Nelson, pressing her against the wall by the kitchen archway. The Joker leaped into the fray, the three grunting and writhing until Harley was wrapped around the Dark Knight from the stomach-down, Joker right on her back. "Now, sweetie," he said, chuckling.

"What," Batman said. Harley pulled a small pink ball out from one of her hidden pockets and squeezed it. It hissed and filled the room with smoke before bursting with a wet 'smack!' sound. When the vigilante waved the smoke clear, he saw that he, Harley and Joker were all covered in a thick, bubblegum-like substance. He tried to move, found he couldn't, and sighed, deflated. Harley and Joker smiled up at him, the goo pasted to Harley's neck and some of it frosting the madman's green hair.

"You like, Bats? I call it 'Not So Laughy Taffy', heh heh! Good for when you want someone to stick around. Get it? Stick around?" He chortled, and Harley made a pained grimace.

"Hey, could you take it easy on the laughing for a bit, puddin? Makes your hands twitch, and they're in a delicate placement," she muttered. Batman looked down and saw that, as ever, the clown had taken the chance to behave like a juvenile, cupping his hands on her breasts before the goo ball burst.

"Sorry, dear," he said, genuinely apologetic. "Hey, I know! Who's up for charades?" Batman, unable to reach his utility belt, reached down and pinched a nerve on Joker's neck, knocking him out.

"How long does this stuff take to dissolve," he asked Harley. She tried to shrug.

"About half an hour," she said calmly. Batman looked off into the kitchen, where Tom Roth lay in a heap, his wife slumped at the stove, weeping. Harley lowered her voice and said, "She's the reason we're here." The Dark Knight looked down at her, twirled one finger in a 'go on' gesture. "She's Rocco's sister. The cop's her asshole husband. He did that to her this morning, so she called Rock."

"Then, he's the one who assaulted the officer?"

"Yeah, but he had it comin'," she sniped. "Look at her, and tell me you wouldn't have wanted to do the same." Batman used the magification lenses in his cowl, activating the medical scanners once he was focused on her. After a minute, he turned them off and looked away.

"I can't say as I wouldn't have," he admitted.

The Joker sat slumped against the wall of his cell, bouncing a palm-sized pink rubber ball against the floor, letting it ricochet off the wall and come back. His grin was one of deep knowing; he had a visitor coming. It would be nice to have some contact, as the guards had taken to setting his food in the transfer slot without any exchange of words. He bounced the ball again, catching it as the pneumatics of his cell door hissed and the steel slab was hauled open. Five guards in riot gear, armed with M-16s loaded with rubber bullets stood in the hall, their features obscured with gas masks.

"You have a visitor," the lead guard said. He stepped aside so the Batman could take his place, stepping into the cell and letting the door shut behind him. The space was already small, and his presence dominated what room there was.

"Imagine my surprise, you coming to visit," the madman said, bouncing the ball once more. "What brings you to my neck of the woods?" He bounced the ball twice more, and on the third toss, Batman snatched it from the air.

"Why," Batman asked quietly, Joker staring up at him, face drawn down into a droll expression. "I've been trying to figure it out since I brought you back here with Harley."

"Figure what out?"

"Why did you let Zippeti escape at your own expense," the vigilante said, letting the ball slip down into the Joker's upturned hand. "That isn't like you."

"No, it isn't," Joker agreed, bouncing the ball. "But Harley said something to me while we were waiting for Tommy boy to get home, when she and I were hiding out in the bathroom. She said, 'he deserves better, he's always done so much for us'. I had to admit that she was right. So, this time, Rocco gets to go free." Joker caught the ball, looked up at Batman. "You going after him?"

"No. Roth went with saying you beat him. Makes him seem more heroic until he stands trial for what he did to his wife." Joker nodded, turned his attention to bouncing the ball again. "One more thing."

"It's your nickel."

"Zippeti's Pasta opens in a week. Where did he get the money for that?" Joker smiled broadly, winked at him.

"I won't tell if you don't go snooping. I figure it's best he gets to do something he's got a passion for from here on, goes legitimate." Batman wrapped on the door, halting to look over his shoulder as he was exiting.

"You're going to leave him be, now?"

"Yes," said the Joker seriously. "That's how family works. You look out for each other." Batman nodded and walked away, leaving the Clown Prince of Crime to his quiet and his ball. He knew a thing or two about family. If he didn't, he would never have become the Batman.

-Fin


End file.
